


Use Your Fist And Not Your Mouth

by Fudgyokra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blood and Injury, Enemies With Benefits, Hate Sex, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Explicit Sex, Oops, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Relationship, Violence, if you can call it that, that's a thing right?, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 18:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10577328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Batman and Joker relieve some tension the good old-fashioned way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in no particular universe, but I did draw physical attributes (for costume purposes) from The Dark Knight. Mostly, though, I was thinking about Under the Red Hood and Arkham Knight while I wrote this, to be honest. Anyway, this is just an excuse for me to write more of the weird, violent sex that brought half of my Borderlands fics into the world. Apparently, I have a type! Fic title courtesy of Marilyn Manson.

 

The lights came on, casting shadows that crawled along the walls like ghoulish apparitions. He could tell that he was tied down in a chair that felt much sturdier than it looked. The bottom hadn’t been torn out of it, so he counted his blessings as they came.

“I did it just like this with Jason,” a voice said to him. Haunting, familiar, enticing. “How’s that for a little bit of emotional trauma?”

The Joker laughed, a high-pitched keen that made Bruce’s ears ring. Like always. So very familiar.

He didn’t know which of them reveled in the immutable pattern of their frequent run-ins more, but he didn’t suppose that was something that ought to be known about someone as high and mighty as the Batman. This, like everything else, was an act. The typical cries couldn’t hit him hard enough if he acted more pleased with himself than he actually felt. Insensate vigilante justice was what he marketed, and that’s how Gotham would be cursed to see it forever. As long as the Joker didn’t get bored with him, that is.

The man in question gripped the hanging bulb by its chain with a ferocity that sent the light skittering all about the room, turning shadows in such a turbulent way that Bruce felt vaguely nauseated following their erratic paths with his gaze. His face, still covered despite how easy it would have been to unmask, was at Joker’s chest level. The rest of his costume, however, was suspiciously absent.

The tails of Joker’s vest hung limply, which Bruce remained focused on as his worst enemy all but draped himself over Bruce’s torso.

“Don’t think you’ll win me over with feminine wiles,” he said dryly, lifting his eyes to Joker’s chest, which was only inches from his face.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Joker replied airily. He circled him once, twice, three times, scuffing his shoes along the floor and humming tunelessly as he went. When he paused in front of him once more, he knelt down, hands gripping tightly on Bruce’s thighs. “But I can’t say that’s a bad idea.”

“I don’t think you’re qualified for that job.”

The Joker’s smile became petulant. He stood again, undoing the top two buttons of his dress shirt and pressing his fingertips to his collar bones, acting in earnest shock as though Bruce’s comment had stung his ego. Bruce, of course, knew that was bullshit. “You don’t think?” the man asked, pitching his voice upward almost coquettishly.

Bruce’s lips curled into a snarl. “Not at all.”

The Joker hit him with such speed that he felt his head being whipped to the side with the force before he even felt the man on top of him, poured into his lap like a street-side call girl, with one hand yanking on his shirt collar and the other now wound tightly into his hair beneath the bottom of the mask. “Now that’s no way to talk to a lady, Batsy,” he said snidely.

Bruce resisted the urge to struggle against his restraints, knowing that that’s exactly what Joker wanted to see. Craved, even, and in such a way that drew him back into this situation time and time again.

Why doesn’t Batman just kill the Joker? The public always asked.

Two reasons, Bruce decided. One: an “antiquated sense of justice,” as Jason put it with painfully clear verbosity. Two: This. Now.

Joker leaned down so they were at eye level, and Bruce, as if on a cue, spat into his face. Lips a thin line beneath red paint, he wiped it away with his glove, smearing the white on his jaw until it was nearly flesh-colored. Beneath the makeup, neck and collar, chest and stomach, legs and arms…they were all that color. The real skin of the Joker, hidden beneath the paint of a fractious madman.

If anyone knew about this, there would be hell to pay. Then again, that was the bizarre, grotesque beauty of it all—that nobody knew but them. Not Tim, not Alfred, not anyone.

“Are you monologuing in your head again, Hamlet?” Joker teased, yanking Bruce’s shirt until the buttons popped.

“Actually, I was calculating how much a tailor was going to cost,” Bruce said, as tongue-in-cheek as always.

“I can sew these right up, Sugar,” Joker said, grinning wickedly the further down he progressed on the poor, unassuming twill of Bruce’s shirt. “Like a good little housewife does.”

Before any words could even formulate in his head, much less be verbalized, he found himself biting down on his tongue as Joker raked his nails down his chest hard enough to draw blood. He leaned forward and attached his mouth to Bruce’s neck, leaving a vicious bite mark in his wake.

Bruce grunted. “I thought we were clear on the biting thing,” he said through gritted teeth.

“So sorry to ruin your pristine media image,” was the response he received, blatantly unapologetic.

“If people ask—” he started, only to be cut off.

“Tell them it was me,” Joker drawled wickedly, sneaking his hand up the back of his headgear again to secure another fistful of his hair and yank his head back.

Bruce had had enough. He played into the Joker’s hands and began to struggle against the restraints, prompting the other to slide off his lap and regard him from a distance with a devilish smile. “Already? I was just starting to have fun!”

“What can I say?” Bruce growled, no humor in his voice. “You drive me crazy.”

Joker put his hand to his chest and swooned dramatically. “A man after my own heart.” With the theatrics played out and done with, he assembled the expression that said he was out for blood, and hit the button to release the Batman from his chair.

It was with a frustrated cry that he launched himself at the man, though this solved little to nothing considering Joker anticipated it and now just happened to be grinning at him from the floor instead of from across the room. “Like a rabid animal,” he said, sounding impressed.

Bruce responded with a hard right hook that connected to the same spot where the makeup had rubbed off Joker’s jaw. Pretty soon it would be black and blue instead. Black and blue. Something in Bruce’s stomach twisted. To retaliate for the mark on his own neck, he returned the favor, dangerously close to Joker’s jugular. Red and pink. As the Joker reached up to grab Bruce’s neck, the latter grabbed one hand and slammed it to the ground above his head. Green and yellow.

Bruce was done painting the picture of violence. Finally, as they always eventually progressed into, he pressed their mouths together aggressively, and within the following minutes Joker was arching his back off the cold tile, the fingers of his left hand curling around Bruce’s wrist, both of which rested above his head, dangerously close to a puddle of what could only be some sort of unsavory sludge. His right hand was otherwise occupied, while Bruce was utilizing his own more for balance than for fun.

“What ever happened to good old-fashioned wine-and-dine?” Joker asked, halfway breathless. He managed what started as a laugh but what ended up being an animalistic groan. His head hit the floor with what Bruce feared might have been damaging force, but then he remembered exactly who he was looking at.

“You didn’t seem like the type,” Bruce grunted back in response, redistributing his weight onto his elbow so he could reach up and dig his nails into Joker’s calf, which was flexed and pressed almost irritatingly into the crook of his neck. His nails drew angry red slashes across the other’s knee and down his thigh, yet all he received was more raucous moaning. Something about the sound made his self-control hit the wall, and he recognized somewhere deep down in him that, no matter what, Joker always played him for a fool. He knew what he was doing, the bastard.

Despite himself, this was Bruce’s undoing, as it tended to be. And, as it also tended to be, Joker counted his ability to last just a few seconds longer as a victory in and of itself. Sometimes Bruce wondered if he even cared about the rest of it.

They dressed in silence, surrounded by pressing darkness and the filthy interior that had seemed unimportant before. Now, in better light and sounder mind, Bruce had the sense to feel mildly disgusted. It wouldn’t have been his first choice for this kind of thing, but they’d been in grimier places. Plus, they weren’t exactly the sort for a king bed dressed in rose petals…not that Bruce would have objected to that, either.

“Well, Batsy, it’s been stellar.” Joker offered once he’d finished cleaning himself up. He didn’t bother to face him. “If I ever need someone to come and f—”

“I get it,” Bruce said quickly, to get him to shut up.

“The rest of your awful costume is in the closet,” is what he received instead.

There was a pause between that and the next spoken words. “You could have taken the mask away, too,” Bruce said, unnecessarily.

“What would be the fun in that?” Joker responded, grinning ear to ear.

By the time Bruce retrieved the remainder of his costumed identity from the broom closet and redressed, the room was expectedly empty. Predictability like this couldn’t be bought.

Quietly, the Batman left the building and vanished into the city, hidden under the blanket of night and the heavy silence of secrecy.


End file.
